


The Frozen Queen

by 2babyturtles



Category: Frozen (2013), Sneedronningen | The Snow Queen - Hans Christian Andersen
Genre: Adult Content, Gen, Love, Magic, Realization, Reimagining, Royalty, Superstition, Sweet, happy ever after
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-11 06:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13518198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: A young woman-- hardly a woman at all-- takes the throne after her parents' untimely demises. In a world of magic and beauty, it seems that her own secret might be safe. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem that anybody around her is.This is the story of Queen Elsa and Princess Anna, reimagined as historical fiction.





	1. Prologue: Her Majesty

The young queen’s cold eyes are hardly unfamiliar to those who know her best, but to the hundreds of gathered mourners, she seems a perfect picture of grief. Heavy woolen cloaks press down upon the shoulders of every citizen and dampen the soft whimpers that escape the otherwise stoic crowd. Known for their festivities, these wintry lands are usually the site of extravagant celebrations. In a terrible, ironic way, today is no different.

A soft gasp escapes the princess, trailing just a few feet behind her sister. Her breath curls into fog as it drifts away from her mouth, obscuring the crystal tears that shine on her cheeks. She’s too young to understand the warning glance from her sister. From the queen. She has a hard time reconciling these two images and doesn’t have the energy to try right now.

Leading the procession, the queen feels much too small and much too insignificant for this occasion. With a thousand eyes upon her and the threat of tears very real, she does her best to focus on the task at hand, taking each neat step along the tile floor as carefully as she can. She knows she must keep her eyes up but she does her best to keep them away from the brilliantly shining golden caskets at the far end of the room.

“Your Majesty,” a timid voice calls from nearby. “Your hands.”

The queen doesn’t turn, knowing that her every action is being watched. As much as she longs for the comforting touch of her maidservant, the woman who had been her nursemaid and recently become so much more, she is grateful for the simple words instead. Glancing down as neatly as she can, she checks to confirm that something is wrong and closes her fists in response, ignoring the bitter crunch that sounds. The delicate silver gloves that encase her fingers are certainly not living up to expectations, and the queen makes a note to confront the smithy who suggested them.

Precisely on mark, the procession stops as the queen arrives at the base of the stairs leading up to the caskets. She can’t keep her eyes off them now and traces the intricate carved patterns with a grateful eye. After a moment, she focuses instead on a man clad in white and blue robes. As grating as his voice is as he begins to speak, she is glad to have a distraction.

“The stars that saw our king and queen crowned have now seen them join their ranks and tonight, under the brilliantly gemmed sky, we pay homage to our great leaders. Beyond that inky blackness is a new day and a new queen.” His tone is as light as could be expected and he turns to the young woman with a gentleness in his eyes. “Her Majesty,” he says easily. “Queen Elsa of Arendelle.”

“Hip hip,” the princess whispers, drawing the queen’s attention. A shock of red hair and a bright streak of white are enough to remind Elsa of the price others have paid in her presence and she hardens her jaw before looking away. “Hooray.”


	2. Chapter 2

When shards of sunshine sneak through Elsa’s bedroom window, they rarely find her in bed. Unlike the ever-snoring princess, the queen is an early riser. This particular morning, just a few days after her parents’ funeral, she’s been occupying herself with the icicles that formed overnight in the gardens. Her maidservant, Johanna, strolls beside her easily, keeping the monarch comfortable as much as keeping an eye on her.

Most icicles are granted an appreciative smile from the queen, who nods delicately at the work winter has done in this small section of her world. Every once in a while, though, she finds one that has been broken or begun to melt and stares at it for a moment in sharp concentration. Johanna cocks her head, watching intently and not daring to interrupt. Her hands remain folded in front of her despite the itching desire to move them to the queen’s shoulders and relax them.

This particular icicle is larger than most of the ones Elsa attempts to cure and Johanna quietly prays to the stars that they will help her do it right. The servants and subjects that manage to find themselves in front of the queen will wish they hadn’t if she considers her morning a failure. Unfortunately, reality is much worse than Johanna had feared.

With a bitter snap, the icicle breaks off near its base and drops slowly through the air. Sailing gracefully, it almost looks beautiful for a moment, and Elsa’s rosy lips part gently as her eyes widen in surprise. A winter hare, unlucky enough to choose this moment to dart past the queen’s feet, suddenly finds itself impaled when the icicle reaches the snow-covered ground.

Johanna barely stifles a gasp and watches as the queen hesitates. Her eyes still wide, she glances for a moment at the sky as if she has the same questions for the stars that Johanna sends in silent prayers.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Queen Elsa murmurs, searching the dawn sky for some remaining hint of a constellation to demand answers from. “But then, nothing really does right now.”

With a rush of breath like the breeze that dances across a river top, the queen stoops and places one small finger against the creature’s head. A moment later, it is entirely encased in ice. Elsa returns to her feet and gazes at her work, her face creased with a frown. Johanna desperately wonders what the queen is thinking, but forces herself to peer at the icy tragedy instead of her monarch’s face. In an unfortunate twist of bitter irony, Elsa’s efforts to freeze the hare also managed to shatter the icicle, and only a small bump remains in the otherwise flawless surface of the hare’s frozen coffin.

Without comment, Elsa turns and begins the journey back to the castle. A forlorn expression crosses her face as she keeps her eyes determinedly away from the stars. Johanna follows a moment later, sad lines etched into her own countenance. The ability to preserve that tiny rodent in the neatest icy shell seems far harder than regrowing a damaged icicle, and yet the queen will no doubt only remember her failure to do the latter.

Reverence for the glittering heavens runs deep in Arendelle and Johanna can’t help fearing the queen will turn her back on the stars. Although she doesn’t consider herself particularly educated on arcane and elemental magics, those of the kind the queen so clearly seems to possess, Johanna can hardly imagine that they come from anything but the stars. Failure to praise those great celestial bodies could just mean an even deeper lack of control on the queen’s part.

Sighing a curl of foggy breath, Johanna catches up to her sovereign. Her boots crunch in the snow despite her efforts to move gracefully and she’s grateful when Elsa opens her mouth to speak before she can, certain that a whoosh of breath will escape instead of words.

“I’ve received word that the smithy from the funeral has been contacted and brought here,” Elsa comments, not looking over at the closest thing to a friend that she has. “I would like to speak with him as soon as is possible.”

Johanna cocks her head, smiling softly. Her humor leaks into her voice and the queen seems momentarily amused as well. “Now is possible, Your Majesty. You are the queen.”

Elsa’s eyes turn momentarily to Johanna’s face and seem to search for something there before she turns away again. All traces of humor are gone when she fixes her eyes ahead again, seeking the castle with her eyes and stepping neatly through tumbled snow with determined steps. “Yes,” she responds, almost more to herself than anything. “I suppose so. I would speak to him in an hour then.”

“Very well, Your Majesty. Shall we get some breakfast?” Although Elsa herself has no need to warm up after this snowy walk, she has never begrudged Johanna that need and they often use breakfast time to do so.

“Yes and send for the furrier, I’d like to get you more appropriate clothings.” There is no emotion in her tone but Johanna is not fooled. She smiles and reaches out to take the queen’s hand, lending her the warmest thing she’s known in a long time. Elsa squeezes back gently.

For a while, they walk in silence, and Johanna does her best to turn her thoughts inward, rather than towards the queen. Regardless, she can’t help noticing the way those blue eyes remain fixated on a snowman some of the servants’ children built just a short way off the path. The queen’s mouth presses into a thin line but she doesn’t comment and they eventually reach the familiar shape of the castle.

“If I may, Your Majesty,” Johanna cautions as they approach. There is no warmth standing so close to the stone, built carefully to keep the heat inside, and they must make their way around to the door before finding any respite from the bitter winter morning. She waits for the queen to nod before continuing. “The princess’ education must be considered, soon. Your parents had put a plan in place but many of those who had been serving in important capacities are no longer in the royal service.”

Elsa’s eyes tighten minutely, as they always do when her sister is brought up, but she doesn’t let those emotions tinge her voice. “Why are they no longer in the royal service? Surely they would have agreed to stay on in service to the princess even after a change in monarch?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty, but there were…concerns.” She had desperately hoped the conversation would not turn this direction but there’s nothing to do for it now. She hates to be the first one to teach the queen a lesson about the dangers of even her smallest actions but it’s better her than anyone else.

“Concerns?”

Johanna slows her pace, conscious of the damage the queen could do to the inside of the castle walls and preferring any outbursts remain outside instead. “It has become clear to some members of court that Your Majesty is making efforts towards distance between yourself and the princess. Those who wished to remain particularly in your favor were concerned to lose their position should they be seen granting too much attention to Her Royal Highness.”

To Johanna’s surprise, Elsa is not angry. Instead, she stops walking and seems to deflate. Looking up at the woman with round eyes and a sad mouth, Elsa takes a moment to speak. “They think I don’t care for Anna?”

Johanna doesn’t answer and the silence stretches on as Elsa moves forward again, weak plumes of snow tumbling behind her. They don’t disappear when the two finally reach the path to the castle door and Johanna realizes they’re coming from the queen herself. When they reach the door and make their way inside, Johanna opens her mouth to speak but closes it again when she sees that the queen isn’t even looking at her. Instead, Elsa seems utterly fixated on her hands and her eyes are dark with some memory. Rumors have spread and Johanna can guess at the queen’s memory but only guess, and she doesn’t dare disrespect her that way.

“Let us eat and then I will take audience with the smithy. I will consider the education of the princess after that,” Elsa finally manages, leading the way to her rooms. Johanna scurries after her, snapping her fingers at a nearby servant and issuing curt commands for lunch and warm clothes. “And a copy of the late king and queen’s education plan!”

 ***

Since she was little, Elsa has always enjoyed playing games. She likes to challenge herself. When she was merely the heir, not so very long ago, she would stand in the receiving hall with her father and mother and try to guess who was coming in based on the sound of their footsteps on the cold tile floors.

Something about the way those steps echoed around the room made every guest seem magnificent and larger-than-life. But every time, without fail, she would turn to check her guess and find just a man or just a woman. Small and grey compared to the ornately decorated hall, only a few subjects really caught her eye. But that’s what made them so special—they got to be important when they talked and when they presented their case, instead. It was never about how they looked.

The difference in her own family was not lost on her when she would look back to see the king and queen, no longer just her parents, standing in shimmering gowns and robes. They always looked as much a part of the room as a tapestry or carved statue. Now, adorned in a simple black dress and tiara, she wonders whether she looks like she belongs here.

Following a sour morning, she’s hardly in any mood to attend the tasks set ahead of her, although she’s certain she will be glad to have finished them at the end of the day. Her brain doesn’t seem to realize that, though, and she runs repeatedly through a to-do list as if she’s actually sprinting through her predictions of what the day will hold.

_Reprimand the smithy.  
Make decisions that will impact Anna’s life forever._

_Check!_

It’s not the first time she’s been put in a position to potentially ruin the lives of those who meet her and, as queen, it won’t be the last. Regardless, she hates the responsibility and finds her eyes drawn to the window where a distant mountain peak tempts her with the sort of isolation she so desperately craves. She turns her eyes away from it though, scared of the cold fever that creeps through her bones. How pleasant it would be to simply shut the castle down and leave Arendelle in the hands of the people.

Footsteps at the other end of the hall signal the approach of the smithy and the end to Elsa’s daydreaming. She finds herself disappointed that she can no longer try to guess who’s coming—they only come when she calls them. Regardless, she is surprised to turn and find a man richly adorned in silver and jewels. She wonders again whether she really fits in in this hall and is frustrated to realize that he looks more the part than she does.

A few steps away, the court herald gasps softly, evidently surprised as well. Elsa takes this as proof enough of the smithy’s audacity, and sets her expression into something more sour. The change isn’t hard considering that she’s already more than a little frustrated with the man. She soaks in that anger while he closes the distance between them and by the time he arrives at the foot of her dais, she’s practically seething.

“Morten af Wilberg,” the herald announces, stepping forward and snapping his heels together as the smithy bows. The sudden display of strict protocol catches Elsa’s attention and she nods appreciatively at the man, who steps back into place. Not for the first time, she’s grateful that so many of her parents’ servants maintained their positions in her own court.

Morten’s careful façade is broken when he glances up with clear shock; only his name was announced, and not his title as royal smithy. Although his movements make it clear that he thinks rather highly of himself, the smithy’s only pervading pomp comes from his masterfully crafted outfit. Adorned in rich silver cloth in the most recent styles, he certainly seems more fashionable than most men his age. Clearly nearing his forties, the smithy’s pocked and scarred face is lined with wrinkles and his balding head glistens with sweat despite the wintry day.

He writhes uncomfortably, his thick neck shifting as he returns to a standing position. Stifling a grin at the man’s discomfort, Elsa speaks before he can, seizing the floor and making her presence clear.

“We see that the silver garments sold to Our Majesty were not the only such articles of which you are capable of making,” Elsa begins, careful not to look away from the man’s face. If she was older—and scarier—she might look away to show disinterest. Now, though, she can’t risk showing weakness or uncertainty, and maintains careful eye contact, aware of the effect of her piercing eyes. She had had Johanna pin her hair into a careful knot of elegant white curls and the severity of the look aids her well now.

“Correct, Your Majesty,” the smithy replies stiffly. He ends his comment with a strange sort of intonation, as if he wants to say more and thinks better of it. Elsa decides it’s probably a wise choice and nods accordingly.

“Shame, then, that those garments were so entirely ill-suited to the task for which they were commissioned.” She lets her voice hang in the air and suddenly appreciates the structure of the room that allows even the softest noises to disappear into the corners and leave only voices hanging in their ears. In this case, it is her own voice and the smithy seems to shrink under the force of it.

“Your Majesty?”

“Our Majesty is merciful,” she taunts, stepping towards the man as he seems to bend in on himself. She’s careful not to step down too many stairs from her dais, however, as she prefers to maintain a height advantage. “For which you should thank the stars. Surely you know of the dangers of unwelcome magic.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. I acted on what I believed to be true and certainly provided adequate garments for the occasion. Certainly there were no issues with Your Majesty’s uncontrolled magic? I had heard that had been largely handled.” His eyes are dangerous and narrow, but his voice is stiff. “Never would I have knowingly offered a sub-par product,” he adds callously.

Frustration bubbles in Elsa’s stomach again and she realizes that the man in front of her thought he was being summoned in gratitude for his work. She wonders if he would be so stiff if he knew how very close she had been to locking him in the tower. Suddenly, it isn’t frustration but hatred that rolls through her as she surveys the smithy. She might’ve lost her kingdom for his poor work, and furthermore, she now must contend with knowing he has intimate knowledge of her powers.

“Tell me of your family,” she demands suddenly, dropping the royal we in her haste.

He shifts awkwardly, moving from one foot to the other for a moment. “I have none,” he responds.

Elsa holds a hand out towards the herald who offers her a roughly bound collection of papers, each detailing the smithy’s work and private affairs. “Indeed,” she responds after a moment of flipping through. “Seems you found a bottle before you found an apology and your wife found it in herself to leave instead.” She pretends to peruse the documents for another moment before glancing back up at the man.

“Your Majesty,” he concedes quietly.

Elsa shuts the book with a snap and passes it back to the herald before turning her back to the smithy and stepping towards the center of the dais. “So it will be no problem when we seize your holdings and set our own experts to work closely with you on developing better product. Of course, you will not need to oversee such enterprises and will find new quarters in the towers comfortable in the meantime.”

She really hadn’t meant to say it but something about the smithy’s petulant face makes it impossible not to hate him. She wonders if she would have accepted his work if she’d met him before commissioning him. The herald’s eyes grow round for a moment but he stifles any further expression of surprise and nods, recognizing his own orders to set the wheels in motion. The smithy is not so wise and reacts with bitter laughter.

“You can’t do that,” he chuckles. “You need me more than I need you, _Your Majesty,_ and surely your people would say the same.”

Tension and a devastating chill rises through Elsa’s shoulders and she stops sharply. She means to turn slowly and she means to open her mouth to speak. Instead, she spins towards the smithy and a rush of ice escapes with a shout she hadn’t meant to hurl. The smithy’s surprised expression remains locked in place, frozen beneath an icy surface. Elsa remembers the hare she’d frozen this morning and closes her eyes to stop the tears. Hot tears. Always hot tears.

“Put him in his new quarters,” she whispers to the herald. He has a name, she’s sure of it, but in this moment, he’s just another terrified man and she’s just a monster. “I do not wish to see him again. Lesé majesté,” she declares. “And let him rot.”

***

Princess Anna doesn’t mean to be disobedient and prefers the term “adventurous.” Peeking through the keyhole of her bedroom door, she can’t see any good reason why she’s been restricted to her chambers for the time being. Grunts of men up the hall remind her of the men who harvest ice in the valley, and she pauses for a moment, trying to remember when she’d ever seen them working.

Distant memories of a cold night and a bad headache flit through her mind but she shakes her head and returns her attention to the empty hallway, wondering what exactly she’s waiting for. It’s not the first time she’s received orders from the new queen to remain tightly shut away and she’s sure it won’t be the last. Regardless, she can’t help being more than a bit frustrated at the situation.

“I’m 15,” she mutters to herself, “not a child.”

A thud draws her attention back towards the sounds of hardworking men and she presses herself against the door to get a better look. Three men with thick leather gloves and boots tramp down the hall, carrying something heavy between them. She recognizes one of them as the brother of the court herald and stifles a laugh at the comparison.

Tall, thin, and lined with gracious features, the herald is a sight of splendor in the receiving hall. Regardless, Anna finds him inherently distasteful, merely because he gets to spend more time with Elsa than she does. His brother, however, is younger and much more fun. Covered in scars and welts, he always seems to be on the verge of telling a joke. Now, however, moving down the hall with two other flustered men, he hardly seems to be laughing.

Covered with a sheet of some brownish material, the item they carry is impossible to identify, although it is obviously heavy. Anna presses herself against the door, desperately curious. As if the stars are listening to her thoughts, the material slips off as the men move just in front of her door.

Glistening silver in the moonlight streaming in from the window and the firelight from nearby torches, the frozen form of a man Anna doesn’t recognize stares into nothingness between the workers. One of the men carrying the figure drops his portion to reach for the blanket and an ear-splitting crack erupts as the tile floor breaks under the weight.

“That’s not good, is it?” the other worker asks cautiously, his voice raw with nerves.

“I think a dead smithy is more of a concern, don’t you?” the herald’s brother, still holding his section of the frozen figure, demands.

“Hardly dead,” the worker who had dropped his grip replies softly as he stoops to cover their haul with the sheet again. “Merely frozen. When the queen warms up, he’ll warm up, and everything will be okay.”

Their conversation continues and stumbles down the hall as they do but Anna isn’t listening. A headache threatens to interrupt her thought process, although she’s not sure what triggered it. Sprouting from the strip of white hair near her forehead, pain radiates through her skull as she replays their words over and over again.

 _When the queen warms up, he’ll warm up._ What did the queen do?


End file.
